


Close your Eyes

by Many_Nine



Series: Sometimes Jon goes home [2]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: And a Hug, Body Horror, Dealing With Trauma, Hope, Horror, Jon really needs more friends, Short appearance of The Stranger, Spoilers for Episode: 132 Entombed, The Buried - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-01-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:00:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22322212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Many_Nine/pseuds/Many_Nine
Summary: Jon just came out of a coffin.That's it.That's the story.
Series: Sometimes Jon goes home [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1607515
Comments: 8
Kudos: 64





	Close your Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger Warnings in order of appearance:  
> The Buried and all it entails.  
> Mention of Vomit.  
> The Stranger.  
> Loneliness.
> 
> Implications of depression.
> 
> Please y'all stay safe.

There were recordings. Tape recorders, tapes, even some papers strewn about on the floor, the coffin. Everywhere. Voices overlapping and washing over each other. Noise, Noise, _Noise_. Jon shouldn't be able to make out a single word. He shouldn't find all this grounding.

He does. He takes a deep breath and sighs.

As he climbs out of the coffin, Daisy clinging to his arm and dirt to his skin, one thought comes over him.

* _I want to sleep._ *

And in this moment, exhausted as he is, this room filled with tape recorders feels like an absolutely acceptable place to do so. He is free from the tight hug of the dirt, the _earth-so-tight-around-him-it’s-everwhere-earth-in-his-mouth-sand-under-his-fingernails-dirt-in-his-_ It’s not in his lungs. He can breathe.

He wants a shower. He hasn’t eaten in… How long had they been down there?

Eating is the last thing he wants to do. No, the last thing he wans to do is shutting off the recorders. He feels sick. Is his vomit going to turn into dirt too?

Daisy says something.

Jon takes the recorder right next to him, the only one actually recording and not just playing back, and follows her out the door into Basira's arms.

Then he stumbles home. Out of the Archives. Into his tiny one-bedroom apartment. Melanie drives him. She doesn't say a word. He can't shut off the recorder. He tried.

There is dirt in Melanie’s car. There is a part of his brain whispering * _It’s following you_ *

Home, he undresses. The dirt is everywhere. He doesn't have a mirror in his bedroom but he doesn't need one to know that it is everywhere.

He is naked and dirty and he doesn't want to lay on his mattress. He knows how it feels to go to bed when covered in sand. Mud must be worse. Dried on his mattress. In his entranceway. Dirt covering his windows. For a fleeting thought the room becomes smaller, the house rumbles as it gets dragged under the earth. With it all it’s inhabitants.

Jon shakes his head. Focuses on the wiring of the recorder in his hand. He is not going to get crushed to death. One day he might not have the choice. But that is not this day. Today he will shower and go to sleep after.

So, resigned he follows the five tapes laying on the ground to the bathroom. He doesn’t think he has seen the second one before. That is Martin’s handwriting isn’t it? Before Jon can try to grab it from the floor all five flicker away.

* _Okay_ * Jon thinks. * _That is now my life. Following non-existent tapes and recorders. Of course._ *

He enters the bathroom. The light is already on. He must have forgotten to shut it off. How long has it bruned for?

A shower then sleep.

A short shower. The shortest of his life probably. Cold and painful and scrubbing with a thick brush. When he comes out, dries of with the towel it comes away covered in mud.

An irrational thought sends him scrambling to the mirror. He looks at his face. At his maybe-human eyes. At his scars, his burned hand, his chest. And he scrubs. Hard. Only mud comes away. He scrubs harder. _I-am-not-what-I-am_ has him. It so nearly has him in its grasp but then he sees the blood. And feels the pain. And he draws himself a bath before rinsing out his brush. Jon hisses when he goes in. It's hot. And his bathtub is still muddy from his attempt at showering. Also his side burns. He feels the absence of his ribs in away he had never felt their presence before.

It hurts.

 _Good_. That means he is human. Sort of.

This time, when he gets out it is better. He is clean, mostly. He looks at his mirror and nods approvingly even though it is all fogged up and he can’t make out anything but a remotely human shaped shadow. He doesn’t care. He doesn't want to see his eyes.

The tapes on the floor are gone. He discovers them on his bedside table. Box. On his bedside box. He doesn’t have a bedside table anymore. It’s a box filled with… Something. He doesn’t know anymore what is inside of it. Something the others could salvage from his old apartment probably. He should open it. One day. Not now.

First the bath. Then sleep. He has bathed. Now sleep.

His wet feet trail muddy footprints on the dirty floor. He should clean. Soon. Not now.

He wipes his feet with a dirty shirt from last week. And then lays down in bed. The sun is shining, drawing warm streaks through his broken blinds. He tried to set them up when he moved in. Moving in alone is hard. They got stuck. Now his bedroom is never completely dark. Not with the lantern right outside his window. Not with the sun shining in. He likes the sun. It is warm. And light. Shiny. _Beautiful-Important-Big-and-Warm-and-Safe-Everything-is-going-to-be-alright-he-only-has-to-fall-asleep-it’s-all-going-to-be-_

* **Click** * the recorder starts running again. It's right next to his head. He turns to look at it and sighs.

Then he pulls his blanket up and closes his eyes.

Only to open them once again. He tries to force them shut. They open again. He stares at his blinds, counts them, waiting to blink. He doesn’t. The sun trails 14 and a half strands of light bundles in his room. An elbow over his open eyes does the trick. It’s dark. The good kind. A second recorder clicks on next to him. His right ear. Apparently, it recorded breathing. It sounds funny, weird.

Only then does he realize it is him who is breathing funny. Fast. Irregular. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. He is warm, he is held _tight-safe--he-is-never-going-to-escape-_

With a yell he throws the blanket on the floor. The recorder next to his ear plays the sound of a sobbing man. His own tears feel hot on his cheeks. He is cold. Wet and miserable.

A recorder clicks on to his feet. Gertrude's voice fills the room. Another, next to his knee. Martin is reading a statement. And another, this time his own voice. And another and another. Another. The voices overlap. It should be noise.

Just _Noise-Noise-Noise--_ nothing else. It isn't. He can't close his eyes, behind his elbow, they run dry. His hair is still wet. His head feels cold. Just like his hands. The sun stripe over his chest is the only thing giving off warmth.

Cold and shivering, blanketed only by voices speaking of _Nightmares, Inexplainable Events_ and _Life-destroying Fear_ , the Archivist falls asleep.


End file.
